


Here and Now

by neevebrody



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Character Study, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-12
Updated: 2010-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>  Images of the fallen roam freely through his mind.  When he does sleep, it's only to greet the ghosts of those he'll never see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here and Now

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "we're not dead" challenge at McSheplets  
> Mention of character death - minor characters

John lies still, listening to the darkness as it hovers - palpable, almost sentient.  Frustration laces the heavy sigh as he opens his eyes.  He should know by now the futility of struggling to keep them shut – he'll sleep when he sleeps.  It's been like this since it happened.

Maybe he can try to fool his brain into thinking he doesn't really want to sleep?  Get up, try and get in a few pages of War and Peace or finish one of his overdue reports.  That traitorous organ would surely release him to sleep then, for his brain has been at odds with his intentions ever since that mission.

He stares into the ghostly strands of Lantean moonlight that fall along the walls and a thought crosses his mind.  Words, actually.  Three words.  If Rodney had said them once, he'd said them, or words like them, hundreds of times.  Oh sure, most often to accentuate his genius at pulling off one narrow escape after another, but still they were just words, a hosanna of relief, a phrase they were all as comfortable with as "_good morning"_ and a sentiment that got almost as much use.

John doesn't want to think about that day, but again, his brain isn't playing nice.  It had been a routine science mission to M3X-778.  Christ, a mission so fraught with _certainty,_ he'd been perfectly at ease not leading the military contingent.

Tunara hadn't been visited by the Wraith in hundreds of years – not since the great culling that nearly took the entire population.  The Tunarans were another race who wisely chose to rebuild and advance their civilization underground, living and thriving, albeit still well behind the curve.  How could anyone have guessed Rodney would lead an exchange team of scientists to the quiet village on the very day the Wraith decided the Tunarans needed a wake-up call?

Standing in the control room with the others trying to comprehend the garbled transmissions had been like standing at the mouth of Hell.  Those feelings still linger, the way his heart had slammed his chest, relentless and burning, how the itch to take off after them had chased adrenaline through his veins.  Through it all, he'd stood there – waiting.  Waiting to hear that one frazzled, high-pitched voice above the others.  Waiting, hoping for those words, or some other indication of _we're not dead._

Only, it never came.  He'd taken a rescue team to Tunara knowing only one thing for certain: there were dead.  Not the entire team, of course, but too many.  Jesus, too many. 

John breathes deeply, wincing at the metallic sting of bile rising in his throat.  It's the same reaction every time he thinks of passing the responsibility of command to Lorne, every time he thinks about his failure to fulfill his duty.  He hadn't protected the civilians or the Tunarans.  He hadn't been there to protect Rodney.

Images of the fallen roam freely through his mind.  When he does sleep, it's only to greet the ghosts of those he'll never see again.  Lofton, Meyers, Wilmot, Andrews, Torres, Savin, Saito, Lenowski and Nishimura among them.  He suddenly feels sick and wishes to God it could be that easy – to splatter the floor with his guilt, his remorse, the unutterable feeling that he's to blame – have it all ripped from him to lie slick and putrid on the floor.  But nothing's ever that easy, or that simple. 

Elizabeth begs him to see Heightmeyer.  Hell, half the base are regular visitors.  The massacre devastated the expedition in so many ways.  It was so bad at first the SGC sent additional psychologists and counselors to meet the demand.  John adamantly refuses to park his ass on a comfortable chair for two hours a week, refuses to let someone manhandle his brain, poking and prodding it until the images are erased – nice and neat – scrubbed from his awareness.  Like it's all okay – not his fault.  And for what?  So he can lapse back into complacency – let down his guard again?

Never.

He'll keep it all, thank you.  He swallows hard and turns his head, pushing a heavy hand through his hair.

The only therapy John needs or wants snores softly beside him.  The low drone and the warmth that bleeds across the narrow space between them a sufficient reminder of what more he could have lost.  A one-man clarion for vigilance.

The wide shoulder is warm and alive beneath his palm, the pale skin glowing in the shafts of moonlight.  It's nothing like the papery casings, dust-colored and dull against the vibrant hues of the Tunaran garments, ashen next to the vivid blue and tan uniforms, the dark BDUs. 

John inches closer until his cheek is pressed to Rodney's back.  Holding his breath, he listens, along with the quiet whirring of the ventilation system and the buzz of the snoring, to Rodney's heart.  The beat, strong and solid, and he thinks how easy it is to lose himself in that steady rhythm.

He'd never meant for this to happen.  Never meant to show his feelings, at least not until – until what, he doesn't know.  Until the time was right?  Until they were safe?  Until archaic social mores and regulations were abolished?

Rodney had taken that decision out of his hands.  He'd confronted John days after leaving the infirmary, stormed into John's quarters with admonitions of "no more," and "this shit stops right now."  John's impotent protests had fallen on deaf ears.  He'd been stopped cold by that look.  The look that said Rodney wasn't taking _I don't know what you're talking about _for an answer.

His heart had been the traitor then.  The more Rodney had backed him into a corner, the more mutinous John's heart had become, threatening to release all it had managed to dam up for so long, until finally it burst forth in a repressed hodge-podge that Rodney probably didn't even hear or comprehend.

What hadn't been confusing or misunderstood was the instinctual, almost feral way they had stripped one another and fallen into bed.  An act born not of desperation or convenience, but of trust, of promise and knowing there were no guaranties to be had – ever.  There was no _until, _only here and now. 

The knot in his stomach eases its grip.  He thinks briefly of waking Rodney, but the heaviness of sleep finally begins to stalk him.  Slipping an arm around Rodney's waist, he dissolves against the welcomed absolution his lover's soft, warm skin provides.  His breathing slows.

For this moment and for the few more hours until the sun rises, when uncertainty will again be their companion, he's free.  Free from whatever might be waiting on their next mission, free from the specters that secrete themselves in the dark recesses, even free from the self-recrimination he dons like a second skin. 

Here and now – with the one thing that makes all the rest bearable.

     

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: velocitygrass


End file.
